MisMatched Affair of Irreconcilable Lives
by Morbid DramaQueen10
Summary: The 10 different ways River began running. In other words, beginnings of the Doctor-River Epic. All one shots.
1. Blossom

**Settling in for the Run **

**I've grown rather fond of oneshot pieces mushed into one long fict. In case you haven't read any of my stuff before, my most successful piece to date is the Doctor-Rose **_**Cravings**_**, based on food-related prompts. **

**Recently, River Song has intrigued me, so I thought I'd give her a go. I'll start with 10 ways River began running, and we'll see how far it goes from there. **

**P.S. I don't like the title, so if anyone has any better ideas, give me a shout out. Pleaseandthankyou! **

**Blossom**

Everything is so lush and green and perfectly alive. The sky moves past at a lazy, gray pace. Simulated clouds rolled overhead. The air is light, perfumed by the blooms surrounding her still form. The grass shudders quietly in a hushed breeze.

She has never seen anything quite like it.

-XXX-

Her Galactic-Biology III class had departed from the brick classrooms today in favour of the Kenningston Botanical Gardens. They piled onto the shuttle, eager to experience the flora of the crystal buildings. River grabs Loriel's elbow as the other students pushed and shoved forward, surging slowly toward the vehicle. Loriel grins and pats her younger friend's arm. River was always squeamish around crowds, even crowds of people she knew.

"Excited?" The elder girl asks, pushing a few strands of silky, straight black hair behind one ear. River's eyes follow the motion, tinged with envy. Her own cloud of soft brownish-blondish (mixed with ginger tints, as though it couldn't make up its mind) was quite unmanageable, especially in the drizzle pour down just outside of the breezeway that connected directly to the shuttle port.

River runs a hand through her mane self-consciously. "Of course."

"Know what area you're going to scope out?"

The required assignment was to spend twenty minutes of the visit meditating in one of the garden's twelve atriums. There was the rainforest, the desertscape, the deciduous forest, the coniferous high-mountain forest, the Victorian gardens, the savannah plains, the Confucius meditation garden, the taiga, and then the four chambers cultivated from off-planet plants. With an off-world ambassador as a father, River had experienced a number of these plants-though, not from any travels herself. Ambassador Song was not keen on taking his daughter off the planet. Everything she had encountered had been brought back by her father, or seen at one of the many embassy dinners she had been forced to attend. River always hated those dinners-in hours before her hair was tugged and tortured into a "reasonable" state, was stuffed into frilly, silly gowns much too mature for her, and dragged to the posh dining rooms where she was fed (it was interesting food, to say the least) and bored to death by adult conversation. The most intriguing part was the potted greenery.

She always loved plants. They were quiet. Unfussy, unassuming. They merely set about their given task with a grace and simple beauty that was unparalleled by any other living creature.

"I'm thinking about the Victorian gardens." River answers.

"The Victorian gardens?" Loriel frowns slightly, lower lip pushing out. "But, you can see those any old time. The off-world selections are only open three months of the year. Besides, all those plants are native. You can walk around the block and see over half of them within the first ten minutes."

River doesn't reply. Loriel won't understand. She's thrilled with the idea of alien vegetation, excited to compare it to regular Earth foliage. River can't be bothered to tell her the only significant difference is climate preference.

They reach the gardens quickly. Everyone offloads in a rush of babbling. Professor Wright yells over the heads of her students, "Remember, one o'clock, everyone. One o'clock and we meet back in the lobby by the shop to return home. That gives you over five hours to explore the twelve rooms. Also, remember, you have your sketch books with you for a reason-I don't require a specific amount of notes, but I do want to see some sort of evidence of freshly acquired knowledge, so, get to it!"

They spread out, pairing up. Loriel hooks arms with River and they walked past the detectors and through the turnstile. "Ready?"

"Always."

The girls trek through the Gardens at a breakneck-pace. River was leading, pointing out interests and oddities, at a snapping rate. Loriel groaned, urging her to slow. But it was no use. River wants dearly to get in her meditation time. She has been to the Gardens before, many times. The Victorian section is relatively new, a territory to be freshly explored.

"Listen, I think I'll just go off on my own." Loriel finally huffed. "Obviously you'd rather I'd sod off."

"Oh, you know that's not true. I just want to see—"

"The Victorian gardens, yeah. I'll meet you up at the shop, right? And," Loriel steps forward to reassure her friend. "Take some time to enjoy this place. I know it's just another day in the park for you, but you're not appreciating it. Stop and smell the roses, yeah?"

River doesn't like roses. She prefers tulips, daffodils, and morning glories. Roses have always seemed cliché.

"Yeah." She replies in her usual quiet manner. Loriel walks away, tossing her younger friend one last smile before rounding the corner in search of the desert biome.

She's not the least bit upset. River, for all her shyness and quiet nature, is not the dependent sort. Loriel has always been under that impression (and River has continually allowed her to be), and took it to her advantage whenever she could to "ween" the younger girl into independence did not outwardly express. Being two years older, and a good deal more sociable, Loriel saw it as her duty to mold her friend into a affable creature. In her gentle way, River was resisting.

The minutes blend into hours as River explores the savannah and rainforest chambers. She's trailing now, much slower now that she is sure Loriel won't slow her up. When there are roughly two and a half hours left she begins following the signs pointing to the Victorian gardens.

To her delight, not a single person is in the room. The tiny digital map posted next to the door shows a blinking red dot for ever visitor, and a blue one for every garden worker. This map is void of lights. She will be blessfully secluded. River enters through the sliding, vacuum-pressure doors into a manicured and elegant park.

In places like this, she can understand how J.M. Barrie got inspiration from a simple London park.

Hedges line the walks, trimmed into perfect cubes. Every so often, she can hear the sound of a gurgling fountain (this room has five, she counted before they left) and birds belting out merry tunes from cherry trees. There are violets, and tulips, and lilies. Fragrant Peonies, lilac, pastel pansies and petunias, soft irises, hyacinths and bright, scarlet poppies. Everything is fresh, green, and bursting. Her hands caress a wall of creeping ivy, dark green with veiny, heart-shaped leaves. Elaborate trellises welcome guests to verandas of smooth, flat stone and mosaic flower beds, where statues and fountains rest in the center.

In the heart of these gardens is a maze. Each of the corner is represented by a Greek goddess. She sees Aphrodite, Gaia, Nyx, Artemis, and the lonely Persephone, each guarding over their private corner with cold marble hands outstretched.

It is Persephone who enchants her the most. A young, lovely goddess of the earth, kidnapped by a mysterious god, the Lord of Death, to a dark world. The youthful goddess's expression is not one of despair or heartbreak, but rather, hope. Lonely, lovely hope.

What in her situation could give her hope?

When she finds a moment, River sits upon a carved bench to start a rendition of the goddess's perplexing expression. Her hand moves freely across the coarse paper, making smooth lines with her charcoal, praying she can capture the utter beauty in the face of the stone deity. The outline is done and shadows are being traced when a out-of-place sort of sound interrupts her focus.

_VWORP VWORP_

River shudders at the sound. It is harsh and broken, as though someone was screaming through a layer of jello. She looks above, to the simulated sky-nothing out of the ordinary there. Are they doing maintenance? Is that why she was the only one here?

The sound roars again, echoing throughout the chamber. She realizes its source is somewhere in the heart of the maze. Rising unconsciously, she starts toward the maze's entrance, some twelve feet ahead of, her, but stops. The wisest course of action would be to avoid the sound like the bloody plague and leave. She still has two hours left, plenty of time to join Loriel in one of the off-world rooms and mediate into another level of spirituality. There is no real, logical reason behind entering the maze and explore the sound. It is probably just some gardener trimming the hedge. And still...

Without sparing herself another moment of internal debate, the girl walks forward to cross the threshold to the maze. In a matter of minutes, she's scaled the outer wall, and discovered a curve going almost directly toward the center. In no time, she stood just a corner away. A scuffling noise could now be heard, though the screaming broken sound had long stopped.

River took a breath and steeled herself for the potential danger waiting around the corner's edge. She eased around carefully, letting herself soak in the sight.

A blue box, solid and wooden, stood off-center in the patch of lawn that made up the maze's center. It had tiny frosted windows in clutches of 12 on each side, and a black sign with white lettering around the top. POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX.

Whatever that meant.

She leaned to her right, balancing her weight on one foot to peer around the box. As silently as could be managed, she moved to get a look at the opposite side.

And then stopped moving.

A man, lanky and thin, leaned purposefully against the box. He was tall, pale, with brown-ish hair that lay over the right side of his face in a charming manner. His eyes were pale, and they bore into her with an alarming amount of force. He recognized her. She could see it in the glint of those orbs. They hinted dangerous things.

"River Song…." The name is pronounced carefully.

River thought about backing away. She did, honestly. But before she can move, he is striding forward on those long legs. He stops before her, less than a foot short and says simply, "Hello, sweetie."

And then he is kissing her.

For about ten seconds she stood in complete and utter shock. Who was this man, and why did he feel it necessary to lock lips with her? He was at least twenty-five, and she was just past seventeen. How did he find this appropri—

The following thirty seconds were blurry, as by that point she'd fallen into the kiss. Her entire life could be spent in that kiss, consumed completely by this stranger's cool lips and careful hands. Hands that were migrating to places she didn't want to think about, but were, oh—

How had he known her name?

It took nearly another ten seconds for River to straighten out her priorities and shove the intrusive fellow away roughly. She stares as he tidies his jacket with one tug and adjusts his bow tie. His eyes are half-lidded, thick with a primitive sort of feeling. There is a small, content smile playing across his lips. He doesn't even have the decency to look properly ashamed.

She begins edging away, hands outstretched behind her to feel for the inevitable wall. The man, face now filled with confusion, follows her progress, matching each slow step in his polished lace-up boots.

"River?" He is puzzled, maybe even a little hurt as he pursues her, eyebrows furrowed.

"How do you know my name?" She asks evenly, crystal eyes trained on his. They narrow briefly, then flare to life.

"Do you…know me?" He asks tentatively.

"No. I'll ask again, how do you know my name?" the girl demands. Another two steps back. Surely she's got to be nearing the wall now.

"I'm a friend." He struggles. "Or, I will be. Hopefully. Someone you trust. Hopefully. Honestly. You'll be calling after me in no time…gods, I didn't count on this being a first meeting…" He moans under his breath.

"What?"

He shakes his head. Another step, and he matches her without even looking down. It's an odd game. Almost a dance. But who is doing the leading?

"_Thud!"_ River's back makes contact with the hedge. She winces as a few sharp branches jab her brutally in the back. The man's eyes tighten.

"I'm the Doctor." He says quietly. "I know that doesn't mean much to you now, but…It will. Soon. I'm sorry to have bothered you. I'll just…." He trails off, motioning to the box. River raises her brows. What? Go hang out in an oddly-placed, oddly-painted shed? Was he some sort of deranged gardener?

"But wait!" Suddenly, he's bounded away, to a…well, she hadn't seen that on her entrance. A blanket is spread upon the grass. On it sits an arranged plate of fruit, a candelabra complete with six long tapers, lit, a bottle of chilled wine, and a small pewter cup, stuffed with over a dozen vivid tulips. He plucks the cup from the ground and returns to her, thrusting it forward.

"I brought theses for you," He says, almost shyly. "Well, I actually brought all of it. For you, I mean. These are straight from the Netherlands." He reaches out to caress one closed bloom, and she cannot help but wonder how those hands would feel on her flesh.

"Well." He claps his hands together. "Sorry. So sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. Keeps happening, though, when you do things out of order…ah, well. I'll just, go, shall I?" He gave another small smile, and turned on his heels toward the blue box.

"No!" River is surprised by the throatiness of her own voice, the slight desperation in her call. "No, it's fine, but I…" She hesitates. "I'm a little confused. Are you a…Time Agent?"

His eyes narrow. "Sort of."

"How do you—do you _know _me?"

The man has crossed the lot in an instant. He's before her again, only this time his hand is buried in her hair, the other cupping her face.

"We keep meeting." He says softly. "Time and time again, meeting. But it's never in the right order. We're always dancing across the whole thing, out of sequence. I'm sorry."

She wants to ask _For what? _But instead, River bites her lip, gazing into his worn eyes, trying to see this story, _her story, _reflected in them.

"Then, will you…maybe…stay?" She practically squeaks. His thumbs trace her cheek. Those eyes dancing, searching. He is silent. She tries again.

"I mean, there's always a first time for everything…right?"

His smile is slow and sweet. "Yes. Of course. River Song," He drops his hands from her face, steps back and sweeps into a bow. "The Doctor. At your service."

She allows herself to be lead to the blanket and questioned about everything and anything in her life. He's not surprised to find she's a archaeology major, though he the minor in biology stumps him. When she tells him tulips are her favourite he just grins like a fool, running a hand through his hair. However, her father's profession is news to him, as is the name of her best friend, and her age. He's startled to learn she is just seventeen, but waves a hand when she asks for a birthday.

Then it is River's turn. She is frustrated to find nothing but an insolent brick wall when it comes to her inquisitions. He's constantly grinning manically and hissing "_Spoilers." _The worst is when she asks for his name. That's when he bottles up a bit, smile fading by a fraction.

"You don't need to know."

"It can't just be 'the Doctor.'"

"Can't it?"

"You have very odd parents."

"Had," He corrects. "Had. They're all gone."

He won't say who. And she doesn't ask.

But she is bold enough to inquire: "What am I to you?"

He nearly spits out his wine. "What do you mean?"

"You kissed me."

"Well," He says, embarrassed. "You wouldn't say hello."

The wine is drunk, the fruit nibbled, and the candles melted down to pillars in lumpy lines of wax. He continues with the questions, but will occasionally pop in a story, using violent hand gestures to illustrate his tale, and theatrical voices when necessary. River cannot recall ever having been so hooked.

When two hours have passed, voices being entering their little world.

"Riiiiiiver? Riiiiiver? C'mon! Did you reach Nirvana, or something? Wright is ready to go, NOW! They're loading the shuttle. Riiiiiiver!"

It was Loriel, and judging from the softer cries, her classmate Ursa. River glances toward the maze's heavily shadowed exit. The Doctor watches he closely.

"I've got to go." She says as their voices fade. "The shuttle-"

"Yeah." He agrees.

"And I've got this paper, and the notes—"

"Of course," He nodded seriously.

"I really should leav—"

"You could come with me," The Doctor interrupts. "Really. I'll have you back in a few seconds. Just, come, River. See the stars. Why study the past when I can let you live it?"

She bites her lip, looking again to the exit. "But what about keeping consistency?"

"I don't know how this began." He tells her earnestly. "You never told me. It could be here, now. _Today._ Why not come?"

The girl hesitant. He cannot know how badly she want to accept his hand, to follow him to the stars, and yet-and yet-

"Just come, River."

"I can't." She tells him softly. "Not now, anyways. It doesn't feel…right."

Soaking this in, he nods. The decision is final. It's not today.

He stands, then helps her to her feet. River brings the candles and glasses with her, setting them on a nearby boulder. He removes the bottle, dishes, and picks up the blanket, folding it in a matter of seconds.

River holds out a hand, cupping his cheek much like he cupped hers a few hours before. "I'm sorry."

He just smiles. "It's not now. But soon."

"Yes," she agrees. River drops her hands to her sides, and begins to walk away.

"And just think," He says from behind her, smile fading with every step that fell. "Now I get to watch you blossom."

When she looked back, he is gone, leaving nothing but wind and a noise that sound rather like a broken howl.

**Please review! **


	2. Reckless Dancers

**Reckless Dancers**

He wasn't sure how he had been roped into this one. One minute, the Time Lord had been staring into the bottom of a martini glass, fiddling with his plastic sword-and-olive as the beat of some 51st century techno-pop surged around him, filling the night club with a scattered sort of power. Hot bodies surrounded him—dancing, grinding, or slumped against the narrow glass bar. It was not his usual scene, to say the least. But Pippa had insisted. So he came.

Then, he'd been ruthlessly dragged onto the obsidian dance floor by a slinky-looking Jaffain with long, dark hair. Well, it was either this, or mope around the bar. At the very least, he was moving. But then the girl had started putting her hands in places where the Time Lord didn't like hands going, and he'd pulled away in a flash. The natives of Jaffa were notorious for their insatiable sex drive—he shouldn't been surprised. Then again, he really wasn't.

From his step on the stairs leading to the near-abandoned cat walk (he'd been boxed in on this particular, forced to recoil from the masses of rippling, sweaty bodies, and ascended with the hope of escaping the gyrating herd), he searched for Pip and found her against some bulk of a man, with a mass of dark hair and suspicious nose. So typical. No matter where they went, from the ever-partying Quelltor to the isolated volcanic Entha, his companions would always find an attractive male they wished to bring home. And no matter the size of the fawn eyes, puppy noises, and threats of bodily harm, he always said no.

Except to Rose.

The Time Lord leaned against the wall, watching the mass of people (and, naturally, Pippa). The whole room thrashed with life. From where he stood, he could see everyone. The bartender, watering down the nearby drunk's seventh hyper-daiquiris. The petite Rvesti girl, charming a crowd of naive uni boy with her hypnotic charisma, one of the more dangerous traits of her species. A group of off-duty time agents in the lounge area, boots propped up on the low table and bodies sprawled across the lush cushions as the swapped stories and saliva with their companions, probably found here in this very nightclub. And, out of the corner of his eye, a flash of muted blonde. River Song.

She was lean, a willow wand of muscle and skin, tanned by the hand of some bright, foreign sun. Her hair curled and waved down her back, passed her shoulders and over the smooth blades. From the very top of her skull some of it had been braided and then left to fall down with the rest of her hair Crystal eyes stared forward, peering onto the sweltering dance floor, alternating between scanning and holding stalk-still. Pink lips waited, pursed. A dress, which looked as though it had been a piece of champagne silk that simply melted and bonded to her flesh, skirted the very tops of her knees. Her nimble feet were clad in dark fawn boots. A pair of silver earrings grazed her collar bone. She was sensual, dark, isolated, innocent and very, very lovely. He had never seen her so young. She couldn't be more than twenty.

And there she stood, alone on the narrow cat walk, high above the others. The Time Lord followed his temptation up every step until it came to rest a few feet from the woman (_"Girl?), _curling around her. He swallowed. She leaned against the thin pipe railing, arms crossed so that each palm cupped the opposite elbow. There was nothing particularly sexual in her stance, but nonetheless he was aroused.

"Hello."

No "_River," "Sweetie," _or anything remotely personal. He wasn't sure they had met yet, in her mixed timeline.

The cool eyes turned to him, sparkling with a hint of surprise, but nothing more. No flash of recognition, no warmth. She didn't know him in the least.

"Hi." She said uncertainly. Her eyes dropped to his collar, where a spiffy red bow tie sat at his throat, and then his chest, eyeing the braces and tweet jacket. A glint of amusement rose in the icy orbs.

He cleared his throat. "Not joining in on the, er, action?"

River smirked. "No, I prefer to watch."

At this he stumbled, colouring slightly. This younger River was just a sassy as her older counterpart. From the way she tossed her mane, lips quirking with good humor, he could practically hear her internal laughter. "_Always so reckless."_

The Time Lord attempted to ease into some form of conversation. "So, observing the action, but not partaking….archaeologist?"

It felt like cheating. But he couldn't bring himself to care.

She had the decency to look vaguely startled, but not nearly enough for his liking. Typical for her. "It's what I'm studying. What do you know about it?"

"Not much. I'm not one for the studying. Tend to get in on the actual building of civilizations, not rediscovering them."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." He did not elaborate, preferring to glow in the faint traces of irritation spread across her features.

"And what, exactly, do you practice, Mr…?"

"Doctor." He said eagerly. "Just, Doctor."

"Doctor of what?"

"Oh, a bit of everything." He replies vaguely. "You know."

"But I don't…" She started, a slight frown pulling her lips down. He instantly wanted to halt its progression.

"Spoilers." He says delicately, smiling gently. River smiled too, despite herself.

"You're not a novel. I can handle spoilers."

"You really can't." The Time Lord warns.

She twists around, facing him move fully. Her hips brush against the pipe railing, slightly cocked. He smirks at the very sight of her—young, restless, and undeniable curious. Just as he was, when they first met. Ah, how the roles had been exchanged. He was leading now, charging forward with a calm sort of suave. Funny, because she was still the reckless one.

Reckless now as she crept closer, pushing against him carefully. "I prefer to know the ending, before I finish. Just so I won't be blindsided. I'm sure you will understand."

"I do." He replied cheekily. "Regardless, it wouldn't be beneficial to anyone. So…spoilers."

She hadn't lost interest in his cliché "Mr. Mysterious" persona—instead, she was almost more hooked. Her eyes flickered between his, wondering just who, exactly, this self-satisfied bastard was? River wasn't made, merely curious. Pleased to see this reaction, the Time Lord settled back against the opposite railing. He commenced with gazing upon the crowd once more. River followed his lead.

For a long time, they were silent. Standing side by side, the Time Lord felt a swell of affinity he's not felt in a long time. River was here, with him, again. Even if she didn't understand the significant of the moment, she was _here. _The Time Lord grinned quietly to himself, bouncing on his heels. This version was the bouncy sort. Not that he minded.

River glanced over. A smile grew across her own face upon seeing his joy. A sort of intangible affection rose around their private world. He was radiating light.

"Would you like to dance?" She felt the words tumble out of her mouth without real cause, almost hopelessly weak. All attempts at charm fell away. She was just…River.

The man tilted his head. "I don't dance much."

"Neither do I. But always at weddings." She didn't know why she said that.

"This isn't a wedding, sweetie."

The endearing term didn't fit with his character. River frowned. "True. But there's surely a wedding going on somewhere. Or, at least, that's what I always tell myself. So, will you dance with me?"

"I'm a rather wild dancer," the Time Lord warned. "You might be embarrassed. A lot of flailing, and that sort of thing. "

"I don't care. Will you?"

"Yes," He said very gravelly, offering forward one slim hand. River accepted. Together, hand in hand, they descended down the stair to the throbbing dance floor.

The night passed them by in no time at all. They found themselves to be reckless dancers.


	3. River's Rain

**River's Rain**

**When River first meets the Doctor. As 17-year-old daughter of an off-world ambassador, she ought to recognize an alien. But River is under emotional distress. 11/River. Avona Liron**

**Avon= Welsh for "river." I added a "a" to make it more feminine.**

**Liron= Hebrew, meaing "my song."**

She hated it. Hated it all. From every drop of rain that fell from the rolling masses ahead to the shining blades of spring grass, Avona Liron loathed with a great passion. Her feet scuffed the dirt path, kicking up bits of mud and rock freely in her anger. The scraping sound was somewhat pleasing. She did it again, feeling it to be a small outlet for her level of rage, but one had to work with what they had. There were other ways to vent, other channels to direct her fury. But Avona had a feeling her father wouldn't appreciate those methods at all.

Her father. He was the one who had gotten her into this mess. He always got her into these things. Indirectly, of course. Avona knew he couldn't really help the effects of his career, or how people treated them, but he certainly could allow her to be homeschooled. Or be tutored by a few of the retired professors who lived in the embassy. Anything but this….

As the daughter of an ambassador of one of the many off-world colonies, Avona was used to stupid questions, curious looks, and a few small biases. These were normal-colony children rarely left their planet, and typically stayed on their parent's adoptive worlds their whole lives. The education given in these colonies were sketchy at best. There were rumors of inbreeding, cults, and sacrilegious practices. Now, having visited (and resided in, at one point in time) a great number of these colonies, Avona knew the truth-the inhabitants were perfectly normal people, merely adventurous, nomadic, and ambitious. They hoped to better their lives out in the stars. Their morals were actually improved by the distance from Earth, and their schools better with high standards and low tuition.

People, however, didn't see this when they looked at Avona. They saw a willow-thin, wild-haired girl who had been born off planet, and who was maybe just a little top unconventional to be considered "cool." Avona could deal with the stares and questions, but not the belittling.

It started today. She had been here all of a month, and in school for two weeks. So far she had proved herself to be an excellent student. No late assignments, thoughtful questions, and appropriate comments when she was asked. She had yet to be tardy, miss a reading assignment, or make any real friends. She was actually more advanced in her education by more than six months. However, the administration hadn't seen fit to push her up any years, though her father had requested it.

On this day, in her Cultures class she got into a quiet argument with Ejan, whose parents had lost a lot of money when the mining industry moved off world, on the benefits of colonies. Ejan insisted that they, the colonies, were filled with barbaric, immoral people who had been forced off Earth for their debauched mannerisms. Avona, appalled by the very idea, defended the colonies, pointing out the numerous services their very presence provided. But Ejan just shook his head, and dragged their instructor into the conversation mercilessly. Professor Merriweather listened to the defenses, then shook her head with Ejan.

"Avona, you don't know these people. They're simply corrupt, dishonest persons. It is true they can provide us with a few services, but for the most part they are criminals. I spent quite a bit of time on a colony, once—" And by _quite a bit of time _she meant three days. "-on a church mission, and I can tell you, they are the lowers of our species. I'm sure, however, seeing as you've developed relationships, even bonds with a few of them, you couldn't help but be blind to these unfavorable traits."

Avona had then been told to shut up (though Merriweather's exact words were "be quiet until you make a bigger fool of yourself, my dear,"). Naturally, she had protested this, loudly. Merriweather, merely raised her eyebrows, looking at the room at large with a _"Do-you-see-what-I-mean?" _expression on her narrow and bony face. Avona, enraged, stood up and condemned the woman for her rudeness. She was then told to leave.

She left the class, not in tears, but fuming. The tears came later, on her walk home.

Her shoes, black Mary Janes required by the school, now had a chunky layer of mud across the soles. She couldn't bring herself to care, really. When she came home, her father might complain, her mother might fuss, and the housekeeper would scold.

She pushed back a damp lock of blond-ish, brown-ish, ginger-ish hair from her face. It apparently wanted to feel the rain free of her bun (another school requirement) and fell to her face once more, curling around to line up with her jaw. Avona couldn't help but smile at that. Her hair was stubborn, always had been and always would be. She wouldn't have it any other way. It suited her.

She was roughly a mile from the city limits, which meant about a fifteen minute walk home. Ten, if she cut through Johnston's-their lawyer neighbor who adored the rainy countryside—field. He kept nothing on it but grass. It wasn't even hayed. No, it just sat there all year, unused. Avona had no reservations in crossing it—he never utilized the thing, why shouldn't she. She certainly wasn't hurting anything.

The field was lined by a very old and very dilapidated wall of grey stone. Johnston claimed this wall was built by their ancestors of Scotland. Avona didn't have the heart to tell him it was less than two hundred years old, built by the owners of a reenactment group of pre-medieval life. She'd seen an essay about it on one of the holodisketts in the library.

_VWORP VWORP… VWORP VWORP… VWORP VWORP…_

Avona was halfway through the field when she heard it over the downpour: a strange, grating noise. Foreign, unlike any ship or machine she had heard before. She paused for a moment, looking up at the sky. It could be a ship. That was reasonable. But what kind?

Her answer came in the form of a blue box, slowing fading into existence ahead of her. Avona watched, entranced, as it became more and more solid with each rotation of noise.

_VWORP VWORP… VWORP VWORP… VWORP VWORP…_

The noise stopped and the box stood, dead ahead of her. It stood, simply blue and simply there. She felt an impossible sense of curiosity, of attraction toward the object. Surely it wasn't a ship. Ships didn't come box-shaped, besides, it looked impossible to find. And whatever was that cloaking device…? Was it dangerous?

The box's door opened, and Avona set off running. She completely missed the head that popped out, taking a careful survey of the land, resting on her fright-propelled form. She also missed the widening eyes, and slow smile. She didn't see the head retreating back inside the box with a chuckle, didn't watch the box fade out of existence. However, she did not miss the box landing for a second time on the field. Right in front of her.

She halted, knowing now that this thing, whatever it was, clearly wanted her. The door opened once again, forced by a pale, long-fingered hand that lingered on the handle. Eventually an arm grew into focus, then a shoulder, a chest, then a neck, and finally a face.

A rather nice-looking face, too.

Avona gaped openly at the sight of the grinning young man with bright grey-green eyes and carefully styled brown hair. Gangly limbs hung with ease as he leaned against the box's door, smile practically glowing as he took in the sight of her and the rain. He couldn't be more than a few years older than her, twenty-five at the least. Still, it was perfectly logical that he could still be alien, merely a humanoid version.

And possibly hostile.

But he didn't sound at all hostile when he jumped out of the box, chirping delightfully, "Hell-o there! How are you, sweetie?" The endearment had emphasis, and a hint of almost-malice. "My, don't you look frightened? Right, sorry to scare you but I just happened to be in the neighborhood-Well, not really, I was about a thousand years off, but does it really matter, eh?-and thought I'd pop in to see you. I know it's been a while, and you _might _still be mad, but the past is the past, and I brought flowers." And indeed, he had produced a bouquet of dove-white lilies, her favourite, from the one of the interior pockets of his tweed coat. They were held forward while the free hand migrated up to adjust a stunning red bowtie.

She stumbled back, still gob smacked. He wasn't making any sense, this crazy man with the box. She needed to go, now.

The man's smile faded briefly. "River? Are you alright?"

When she didn't answer, he took a step forward. "Are you still mad, River?" he asked gently. "I am sorry. But it was just too—"

"Who are you?" She blurted out.

He stopped inching forward, smile fleeing his face for good. "You…you don't know who I am?"

Avona shook her head vigorously. "Not a clue."

For a moment, the man's face turns very, very grey. Avona was unable to describe it. It was as if every bit of light, every piece of happiness had been sucked from his body by her simple words. The lilies fell to the ground at his feet. Avona watched them collect rain, but to the man they were absent entirely. He shook his head, murmuring, "…and I thought we had more time."

She cannot stand to see anyone so bleak. "I'm sorry, I think you've mistaken me for someone else. I've got to go home now, got to see my father—"

But he lifts his head, shaking it as if to agitate out all bad feelings. "No. No, I didn't mistake you. I would know you anywhere." He said helplessly. "You just don't know me yet."

"I've never met before, I'm sorry, sir—"

"I know." The man was desperate now. "But please, you've got to listen to me. River.

Thoroughly confused, Avona backs away. "Um, right, well… I—I can't. Bye." She turned, practically flying toward the road, leaving the mad man behind. Alone, in the rain, in Johnston's field.

"Would you believe me if I said I knew what happened today at school?" He called after her.

Avona twisted round slowly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean five years from now, you will tell me exact what happened today, the day you met me. Why you were crying. I'm much too polite to ask now, but five years from now you'll tell me, even if I haven't technically met you yet."

Avona scrunched her nose. "That doesn't even make sense."

"Yeah does." He tapped the side of his box. "Time traveler. Makes complete sense. So…will you listen?"

She hesitated, eyes flickering back and forth between him and the box. He stepped forward, closer and closer. He closed the gap that she had created, the few meters of space her five seconds bought her. When he stopped it was less than two inches from her, so that their chests brush with each inhaling of breath. He bent his neck and their foreheads were almost touching. She felt the too-cold breath on her face, and stared up, defiant. There was no smile now, not even in his gaze.

"If you run," He breathed quietly. "I'm just going to follow. I'll have no choice."

It didn't make sense. She believed him. With a nod, she stepped away.

"Alright." He took a step back too, motioning for her to follow. Avona waded through the knee-length grass before stopping right behind him. He stood very, very still, listening.

"Wha—"

"Nothing." He turned sharply, staring down at her. "Do you want to hear it, now?"

"Yes."

He place a tight grip on her wrists and lead her on toward his box. They sat beside it, his back pressed into the blue wood.

"You've been in class for roughly two weeks. Haven't really made many friends, which is typical for you, for the daughter of an off-world ambasssador. Today a boy, Ejan, short for Ejanathan, made a rather rude comment in regards to colonies, which you took offense to, seeing as you were practically raised in a colony. You argued, and to your surprise, your Cultures teacher, a Miss Susa Merriweather, took Ejan's side in the debate. She belittled, then told you to shut up before you could defend your point. Then you were sent from class. And now…" He lifted one finger to sweep it underneath her right eyelid, skimming the tiny eyelashes underneath. "…you're crying."

Indeed she was.

"So passionate." He whispered. "Can never go down without a fight, no matter what."

"Who are you?" She whispered back. "How do you know this? How do you know who I am?"

"Oh, River." Was all he said, that bleak look returning in his gaze. "River…."

The young woman stared back, confused. He was hurting, she could see it and felt compelled to end it. The pain in his eyes was far worse than the pain falling down her face in the form of fat tears. She leaned close, unsure of her next moves.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You haven't done anything, River."

She bit her lip. He caught it. "What is it?"

"Why do you keep calling me that?"

"Calling you what?"

"…R-r-river?" She stumbled over the word; fear crept into her eyes when she saw is foreboding expression.

He was startled. "Because that's your name."

Slowly, the girl shook her head. "No. No, it's not."

"You're River." He says softly. "I know you're River. River Song."

Silence.

"Aren't you?"

"Avona Desdemona Liron." She replied softly.

The man went stalk-still, tilting his head curiously. "Avon, Welsh for 'river.' And Liron a Hebrew name for 'song.' Oh. Oh! You clever girl! Absolutely clever. That's how you kept hiding from me."

She doesn't respond, merely watches him as he rattles off nonsensical words and "clever" with a zest. Avona considered this alias he claimed as hers. River…River Song. Well, it wasn't much weirder than Avona Liron. Sort of charming, actually. In a mysterious, nature-y sort of way.

"You've known this all along." He smiles. "Clever, clever girl."

Something occurs to her. "I don't know your name."

Beside her, he stiffens slightly. "I'm the Doctor."

"Doctor…Who?"

"Just the Doctor." He tilts his head to match hers, eyes following hers, perfect reflections of curiosity. "Nothing else."

"How—" Avona starts, then stops. The Doctor waits quietly. "How do you know me? How…did this start?"

He tips his head back, laughing. "It started here. Right now. We're starting, aren't we?"

"I suppose. But you've clearly met me before. You know me. Well." She lowers her eyes.

The Doctor stares. "River Song…I do believe you're being shy!"

Her cheeks coloured, and she looked away entirely. "I'm not the same girl you knew…know? And it's Avona, please." She adds softly.

"Know. I still know you." _All of you. _

She heard it, in her mind, and knew it was an accident. She can see now he's not entirely human. His skin and breath is too cold, his heart rate too fast. And now telepathy.

"How did we meet?"

"We met in a library. You came crashing in, as usual, practically apparated before me with a 'Hello, sweetie!'" He chuckled weakly. "I was gobsmacked. You acted like you were duchess, so domineering and brave and _River. _I think you took a bit of me with you, when you left." Then he stopped talking, and Avona is left with the impression that this particular visit ended on a bad note. He stared toward the horizon, watching the rain. They're quiet for a while.

"You were so brilliant."

"Thank you, I think."

"And now, so shy…" He sighed, drifting off. "But I can see you."

Avona wasn't sure what to say. So she just nodded. Then something occurs to her, something that ought to have much, much earlier—

"What are we?"

He doesn't even glance. "I don't know. I guess we'll have to find out together." Then he looked at Avona. "If you want, Avona?"

It's then that she saw it; the quiet pleading, nervous hands twisting, strained lips pulled tight. He was just as nervous as she. And then, suddenly, she knew what she wanted-she wanted to find what they were, discover her future with him, and earn that name. She wanted to be her, _River Song. _Even whispered in her mind the name sounded fresh, new, and impossibly _hers. _Avona wanted see this future he had already known.

"Yes."

The lilies where scooped off the ground and put in her hands and Avona swore they smelt even better in the rain.

**-XXX-**

**Alright, chapter 3! **

**Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. This one took a few days.**

Please review?


	4. The Constant

**The Constant **

**A young River Song is interrupted during her grandmother's 80****th**** birthday party when the Doctor appears with a small child, forcing her to care for it before he leaves. **

"Happy eighty-eighth, Grandmère." I whisper as I kiss her cheek gently, smelling her powdery sweetness. She pats my face smiling with thin lips. Her eyes are a Mediterranean blue, and slightly misty with age. I stare into them as I step back.

"Thank you, darling _Rivière." _She replies, taking my hand. "Thank you for coming. I know you're busy…"

I shake my head. "Not too busy for my Grandmère."

"_Merci, darling, __vous êtes__trop bon."_

"How many people are here?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. Your aunt invited them."

Scanning the room, I see over two hundred people milling about in various states of dress-formal to almost irritatingly casual. They all know my great-grandmother, somehow, and have come to pay their respects. She is, according to those who know better, an honored member of society. Her manners date back to the glory days I've never known, but only seen in movies. The age where people still wore hats, rouge, and drove pastel-coloured cars. Those days.

I honestly believe, however, her glamorous nature comes from being French. Well, nearly French. She is a third-generation transplant, meaning her mother's mother was born and bred in the country. My great-great-great grandmother was a young woman at the start of World War II. She had been in Paris when the Nazis took the city, and she had still been in Paris when they had been kicked out. That's how she met my grandfather, you see, a British officer. He brought her across the channel, settled her in Dorset. Location didn't matter—she stayed French.

And so did my great-grandmother. Grandmère loved her heritage with a passion and insisted all of us learn the language by the age of twelve.

"Can you believe," She asks me. "That I am nearly nine decades old?"

"Not really." I admit. But I can believe it. It's no big wonder, but no small feat.

"Have you ever met anyone as old as me?"

I bite my lip. I've met a person over ten times older than her, but I wasn't about to admit it. He doesn't like having his name spread around unfamiliar crowds, though I doubt Grandmère could really do much harm. After all, most of her friends are dead.

"No," I lie. "I don't think so."

She smiles. I return it, pulling my gaze away from the buzzing room. Today she has dressed in a cherry blossom-pink dress, complete with a sheer sort of chiffon floral cardigan. On the collar, I was pleased to see the tiny pink rhinestone pin Elimere, our youngest cousin out of the twelve, had given her the night before. Elimere said she made it in art class at the preschool.

"_Charmant, ma chere!" _Grandmère had exclaimed at the sight of it, tucked in a small velvet box, surrounded by cotton. Elimere had blushed, hiding in her mother's chest while the rest of us exclaimed similar sentiments over the dinner table. I had gently coaxed her into my lap a little while later, stroking her soft downy hair and listening to her fluttery little heart.

I will never have children. My life style will not allow me that joy. I will never be a grandmère. My aunt has protested this, saying many archeologists have managed to settle easily and have content families. This is true. However, that is not the thing preventing me from this lifestyle. How can I explain to her the life I am living is far from the life they've always expected me to have? That I'm not spending my days dusting bits of pottery from 1205 B.C.E., but watching that pottery being made in 1205 B.C.E.? How do I tell them I might be spending the rest of my days with the love of my life, but I can never, ever, actually have that love?

You see, I can't.

"Are you enjoying yourself, Gran?" My aunt Synora sidles up to us, small plastic plate of finger foods in one hand, plastic cup of punch in the other. She hands Grandmère the punch. Grandmère exchanges glances with me. Synora had never accepted her grandmother's preferences for French and was, to date, the only descended from the Song line to be inarticulate in the language.

"Very much, _petite fille." _

Synora turns to me.

"Granddaughter." I say automatically. As Synora refuses to learn French and claims to have no knowledge what so ever of it (which I do not believe, seeing as she grew up around the language), we've all learned to accommodate her.

"Ah."

We're awkwardly silent for a little while, until Synora says conversationally: "I didn't know you invited any friends."

At first I am under the impression she is speaking to Grandmère, which I find odd-I mean, it's Grandmère's birthday part, it wouldn't be entirely out of place for her to invite a few old friends. Then I see Synora looking at me, clearly trying to catch my eye. I start.

"Oh, I didn't invite anyone."

"_Avons-nous une resquilleur?" _Grandmère asks me.

Synora raised her brows. "What did she say?"

"'Do we have a gatecrasher?'"

"Oh. I don't know. He was standing by the punch bowl, watching you. I asked if he knew you, and he just laughed and said not only that, but he was married to you."

I gape, openly. "Marry…?"

It's at this moment that I make eye contact with the most feared being in all the cosmos.

He's wearing a fez.

Forcing a laugh, I turn quickly to my aunt and grandmother. "You know, it's my old college lab partner. John. Do you remember him? John Smith. I brought him home a few times, he's a right trickster, he is!" I fake another laugh. "He must've snuck in. I'll go usher him out."

"_Oh, non!_" Grandmère waves a hand. "He can stay, if he is an old friend of yours."

Synora frown. "I don't know, Gran, he's—"

Grandmère cut her off. "Friends are important. River has been working far too hard lately. Let her go enjoy herself. Go," She says to me, waving her hand again imperiously. "Have a good time."

Swiftly, I went. As I was leaving, I heard Grandmère say quietly to my aunt, "And it wouldn't hurt for her to spend some time with l_es hommes." _

"The what?" Synora asks.

It was a really confidence builder to know my grandmother thought I could use more time surrounded by men.

I find him again in the crowd—which isn't too difficult, seeing as he is staring right at me, a sort of desperate pleading in his intense gaze. He's standing on the dance floor, though not dancing, oddly enough. Apart from the fez (_Where did he get that thing? And why is he wearing it_?) he looks fairly normal. Nicer than usual, even. Hair combed, in a tux, he looks positively _beau, _as my grandmother would say.

As I approach he rushes forward, apparently too eager to wait, and grabs my arms. "I need your help."

"Hello to you as well," I murmur against his chest, which I have been forced into. I do not particularly mind this however, as it gives me the chance to wrap him in a hug. "Gatecrasher. Are you alright."

"No," He whispers against my ear. We're in the middle of the dance floor, swaying. "I'm not. I'm in the middle of a firefight with a fleet of Ubaxion warlords. I need you to take care of her—" He jerks his thumb to the left where, to my great surprise, stands a stout little body. A child, small and delicate, stares up at me with bright gray eyes. I curiously stare back. "-and it's your turn for babysitting duties, anyways."

"Babysitting duties?" I ask dumbly.

"Yes, babysitting duties. Now, I don't know when I'll be back, so you'd best come up with a good story of who she is-"

"Niece," the little one cut across him. "We've used niece."

"Would that work around her family, though?" He turns to the child frowning. "Nah."

"What is going on, I don't know—"

"River," The Doctor says soothingly. "You've got to watch her. I can't keep her there, it's too dangerous, and you promised to do this whenever we hit trouble, remember. Well, we've gobsmacked it."

I shake my head. "I still don't understand, Doctor. You just come crashing into my Grandmère's 88th and—"

He frowns. "88th? But that would make it…" He drifts off, eyes widening. "Oh. Oh dear."

"Why did you tell my aunt we were married?"

"You don't need to know that." He says firmly. "I just need you to watch her—" He pushes the kid forward. "Until I can get back. That alright?"

"Not really. I don't even—"

"You'll be okay. Just…do parent-y stuff."

"What?"

He waves his hand, much like Grandmère, and says, "Believe me, you're a natural."

"Doctor, what am I supposed to tell my family?" I hiss, moving close, shield the child from our conversation. She blinks up at me, face void of apparent emotion. "You pop in here, claim we're _married, _bring a child, and then just leave her with me like it's a perfectly natural thing to do! Well, it's not! I know you're a little rusty on common social skills, but this really takes the cake."

At that moment, the girl looks up to the Doctor, pulling on the hem of his coat. He peers back for a moment, around my shoulder, then nods. "Yeah, go get yourself some cake."

She trots off, and I spin around. "She didn't even say anything!"

The Doctor scratches the back of his head. "Yeah, well, fancy trait that. A little unique. Gets it from her father." He winks. "I honestly have to go now. I negotiated enough time to just drop her off. So, I'll be back…when I get back."

With this he leans forward to peck me fondly on the cheek, then promptly disappears into the crowd. The kid pops up at my elbow. "Wait, I don't even-!" I call after him, but it's too late. He is gone. I sigh heavily. Typical.

The child presses against me. Her head barely reaches my hips. I look down, curious. She is tiny, with shoulder-length blonde hair, huge eyes, and tiny rose-pink lips. She's quivering slightly, though whether it is me or the throngs of people surrounding us that motivate this fear, I cannot tell. I put one hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently, and guide her off the dance floor. She follows.

When we've found our way out of the masses, I stoop to her level. "What's your name?" I whisper, pushing back a lock of her silvery hair from her forehead.

"Lyra."

"Just Lyra?"

"M' not allowed to tell the rest." Spoilers, then.

"Oh." I smooth back more of her hair. "Alright then. I'm River. River Song."

_I know. _

I don't hear the words, but I feel them surge through my mind. "Do you?"

_Yes._

"This is my great-grandmother's party, Lyra. She's eighty-eight years old, so we're celebrating."

_That's not very old._

I can't help but laugh. "Maybe not to the Doctor. But to normal people, humans, at least, it's a bit of a milestone."

She doesn't reply. Smiling, I take her hand, and lead her back to Grandmère. My grandmother sits with Synora, watching the dancers with clear delight.

"Oh, there you are _ma chere! Où étiez-vous_?"

"I was speaking to my friend." I gestured back toward the crowd.

Grandmère tilts her head. "And you have returned with a _douce enfant!" _

"_Merci, grand-mere." _Lyra responds before I can translate. Synora raises a brow.

"Hello," she starts, leaning down Lyra's level. "Is River watching you?"

"My friend left her." I say quietly. "He was having some trouble, and needed someone to watch her."

They accept this story, though Synora looks unconvinced and more than a little curious. I take the seat by Grandmère. Lyra follows, hands outstretched. I lift her on to my lap. We sit for most of the night, our watching and silence interrupted only by the occasional question or remark from the various guests. Eventually, Lyra rested her head on my chest, began to breathe deeply, and fell asleep.

She reminds me of a young bird. All quiet, soft, and big-eyed, watching with a small sound occasionally emitting from her mouth. Her tiny arms fold, legs curl. It is an endearing sight. Every so often an elderly woman will stop by, admiring the sleeping child in hushed tones. I'm asked the standard questions—how old, what school, is she mine?

I carried her out after kissing Grandmère, Synora, and all my cousins farewell. Very carefully, I lifted her into the cab Synora had hailed when I announced my departure. Before I can follow, my aunt stops me by taking a hold of my right hand, fiddling with the opal-and-moonstone ring that rests on the middle finger.

"Is she your friend's daughter?" Synora asks, eyeing the child tucked into the back seat. "She doesn't look much like him."

"I don't know." I reply honestly. She nods, releasing my hand. "Goodnight."

When I slide in beside Lyra, she cuddles up beside me. "When will Da—" She freezes, then corrects herself. "-the Doctor come back for me?"

My heart skips a beat. I had suspected, of course, but this evidence is nearly indisputable. I stroke her hair, pulling behind her thin shoulders and smoothing it down her back. "I don't know, my love."

We started home.

She woke when I opened the door to my small house, sliding from my arms to cross the threshold. After a cup of tea, I asked after her bedtime routine. This was followed by a bedtime story—a beloved Norwegian fairy tale of my youth about an enchanted, lonely prince, and a misplaced girl who found her home with him. Afterwards, I gave her a soft old t-shirt for nightwear. She was given the guest bed, though she came down the hall to climb into mine sheets. She curled around me, snoring lightly.

-XXX-

He appears two days later, in my back garden. Lyra is upstairs, playing with an old dollhouse a few of my younger cousins enjoyed when I babysat them. She runs down the stairs when he enters through the white French doors, her small fingers trailing after her on the wooden banister. She stops after the first flight, staring down at him silently.

I can understand why. He is battered, bloodied, very bruised, and clearly stiff with pain. I had waited for him to emerge from his ship for over three minutes. Obviously, something was broken. He had limped all the way to the house.

Lyra's eyes grow wide at the sight. He's standing slightly bow-legged, face blackened and eyes bloodshot. It's terrifying.

"Lyra, my love," I start quietly. "Why don't you go upstairs? I'll take care of your-the Doctor. Go play."

She leaves without protest. The Doctor watches, shifting from foot to foot, wincing with the movement. I motion for him to follow me. When he utters a small cry, I rush to his side. He allows me to act as a crutch, supporting half of his weight. We limp together to the kitchen. I help him up onto the island. Then I rush to the bathroom for bandages, peroxide, antibiotic cream, stitching supplies, and washclothes. Without too much protest from my patient, I manage to coax off his shirt and pants. The jacket has been presumably left on the TARDIS. I toss the clothes in the washer along with a healthy measure of color safe bleach.

Next I wet the wash clothes with a bit of warm water from the kitchen sink. I turn to him. He's being awfully quiet. "I'm going to clean you up a bit." I warn. "To see the extent of your injuries."

He nods. I begin my gentle scrubbing.

It's very intimate, what we're doing. I've never seen him so vulnerable, so bare. Under my touch he trembles, averting my eyes. I regard him quietly from beneath my lashes. Every so often, I glance up to find his gaze, which is often diverted, just to reassure myself.

It is a very awkward hour. After washing the wounds, I begin applying cool patches on the bruises (they will be later scanned on the TARDIS with the epidermis revival scanner wand), peroxide and antibacterial cream on the numerous cuts, then I deaden the areas with the deeper lacerations (deep enough to reveal a sliver of white-yellow fat) so as to suture the flesh together. I'm sure he has a few devices on the TARDIS that could mend just as well, but nothing beats an old-fashioned stitching session. The Doctor turns away as I thread the C-shaped needle. After giving him a hearty dose of morphine, I steady myself when I take his arm, stretching the skin slightly so it grows taut and firm for a better stitch. The needles touches the skin, but I don't dive in. I pause to catch his eye.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." His voice is hoarse, probably from lack of use. It is the first time he has spoken from his arrival.

"I know. Still."

The needle slides in and he hisses.

"Does it hurt?" I demand. "Was I supposed to wait longer?"

"No…no, just…"He hesitates. "It isn't really effective, for Time Lords. Like, diluted alcohol. Enough to make you a little dizzy, but not really sufficient for the task. I should've mentioned it. But it's too late now."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Now, please, hurry."

I rush through five sutures in an hour. Then it is time for bandages and more painkillers. I strap his ankle into an air brace, hand him my grandfather's walking cane from the coat closet, and lift him off the island to lead him to the parlor, where the winged armchair waits patiently.

"Do you need anything else?"

At his request I return from the kitchen with a steaming mug of sweetened black tea and a tall frosted glass of beer. He holds his hand out, staring pointedly at the beer with his brows raised, but I ignore him and set the tea on the small side table next to his chair.

"How do you feel?"

"Fine. Completely fine." It's clearly a lie.

"Liar." I scold mildly. He smiles wearily, taking a hearty sip of his tea.

For a while we just sit there, sipping our respective beverages. There is nothing to say, really. Until—

"She's your daughter, isn't she?"

He doesn't seem to have heard. He just stares forward, out the window directly facing him, eyes glassy. "Does it matter?"

"Yes. I think so."

"She is very important to me. That's all you need to know."

"Spoilers?"

"Spoilers." He says firmly.

"I don't care."

"I do. And you will."

"But she's not just a spoiler," I insist. "She's special."

"Everyone is special."

Frowning, I set down my glass. "Stop being cryptic. Tell me. It's going to happen eventually, why bother in keeping it a secret? You've already ruined it. Only an idiot could be blind to—this." I gesture, holding my arms out wide. "She's your daughter."

He blinks. "What would cause you to believe that?"

I groan. "You don't just carry small children on the TARDIS with you."

"So? Doesn't make her my…daughter." Now he is frowning, deep lines etched into his forehead. "Please, River, let's just…not. Please."

I sit back in my chair. He's still trembling. The mug in his hands shakes, amber liquid dripping down the side at a break-neck pace. I've startled him profoundly. His eyes turn back to the window, though they are unseeing, frosted with confusion and chaos. Though he is totally in control, I see grim fear in every line of his face. He sips his tea again, ignoring me, closing off. Typical. He always wants to tuck those tumultuous emotions back into that box he keeps in the back of his mind, hide the dismay, and move on. It isn't healthy.

"I'm hurt. I don't know or care who the mother is. I just thought…I just thought we were close enough to share those secrets."

"This isn't about secrets and trust." He sounds wearily, beaten. "You know that. It's never been about trust-it's about doing what is right in regards to paradoxes and chronologicality. Not trust."

"I don't care."

He snorts loudly. "You will. Trust me."

I highly doubt it. Regardless of how many times he says it, I'll keep asking.

"How are you feeling?" I change the subject. The Doctor doesn't comment at my switch, merely inclined his head. He answers truthfully. Sort of.

"Better. Much better, thank you. Still sore, probably limp for a while, but it's no matter."

"What happened?" I cross my legs, drawing one beneath me. "You obviously didn't feel incredibly confident about the situation."

"Yes, well, Ubaxion warlords…difficult situation. Slightly."

"Did you honestly take on a whole fleet?"

"Two fleets." He ages visibly in front of me, sinking further into his chair.

"What did you do?"

"Lured them to the edge of the nearest super nova. Their gravitational structure in the ship prevents them from being sucked in, see?"

"Usually." I'm catching on.

"Usually." He confirms. "Short-circuiting the drive for it didn't take too long. They had captured us earlier, you see, so I had the coordinates for at least one of the ships. That was just enough to remotely execute a similar disabling features on every ship in one of the fleets. The second one caught the warning, after they watched their brothers fall into oblivion."

"Oh."

"So you see," He says easily. "She needed to be sent with you. For protection. Can't have her frying on some Ubaxion ship next to me."

"Ah."

"It was for the best."

"Naturally."

"Naturally."

We are silent. Then—

"I best be off. Is she…?"

I stand swiftly, gently pushing on his shoulder to keep him in his seat. He winces, and I remember a bruise I'd seen there.

"One more cup of tea." I say. "Then you can go."

So I leave him to set on the kettle, then begin up the stairs. Lyra is in the guest room, playing with the doll house. For a while I stand in the threshold, watching her move the wooden figures of a family about the Victorian-styled miniature home. The completely little family goes through a meal, a conversation, a dance…she whispers in each of their carved ears before turning to me. Lyra carefully sets her toys down, then sits, looking up at me calmly.

"How is he?"

"Hurt." I tell her. "But getting better. He's nearly ready to leave. Why don't you come down for a cup of tea."

She nods. As she stands, I say, "Why don't you take those—" I gesture to the small pile of clothes laying across the bed, clothes we had bought the day before. "—with you? I don't know if you'll be back again, but—"

"I want them to stay here."

My heart sinks for a millisecond.

"Because I might come back." Lyra smiles very lightly. It's like a flower opening its petal in dawn light, after closing out the darkness of the evening. Very slow, and very beautiful.

With her smile, I begin to beam too. She is utterly charming. I honestly hope to see her again. He never brings guest with him, though I highly doubt I can convince him now. He is clearly a future Doctor, one that I will not meet for some time. Perhaps it will be years before I see Lyra again.

She leads the way down the stairs, with my trailing behind. I direct her to the sitting room, and end up having to rush to the kitchen at the sound of the screaming kettle before I can sit. The tea is made, tray readied, and I bring the whole shebang—pot, porcelain mugs, sugar, cream, fresh biscuits, and spoons-into the sitting room with impeccable balance. I set it on the coffee table. Lyra sits on the arm of her guardian's chair, swinging her legs lightly.

We prepare and drink our tea slowly, as if intentionally spreading our time thin. The Doctor asks, smile plastered on his thin face, what Lyra has done during her time here with me. She quickly rattles off the pancake breakfast of her first morning, a trip to the museum (it was an emergency call for me), a few painting sessions, going to the movies, the bookstore, grocery store (Lyra had never, to my surprise, been to a green grocer's before), and last night's pesto-and-angel's-hair pasta dinner. The keen details surprised me. She had apparently enjoyed our time together.

As she continues, the Doctor catches my eye. He smiles and winks.

Finally, the time comes for him to go. I urge him to stay—he is still hurt, it is senseless to leave in that state. But he won't hear it, merely shakes it off.

I follow them into the garden. Lyra grabs my hand before we walk out the French doors. As we pass the peonies, roses, and lavender, the ivy and holly bushes, hostas and fanning leaves of the tall grasses that reside in my garden, she touches each branch, leaf, and petal she nears.

He's parked in the furthest north corner. The bright blue looks misplace beside my mossy old fence. Lyra practically leaps to cling to the box. Her guardian smiles proudly, then turns to me.

"Well, we shall be off."

"Yes. When will I see you again."

"Ah, well…" He muses. "This was an accident. Not something I planned. Might rip a hole in the universe if it's that sort of paradox." The Doctor winks. "Right. Have we done Jim the Fish yet?"

"What?"

"Ah. Thought not. Well then, may be a month. Possibly a week. Somewhere around there. I'll give you a ring."

"Right."

"I will!" The Time Lord protests mildly. I shake my head, leaning against the nearest oak. He smirks, mocking my motion against his box.

I quiet inquire, "She'll be okay?"

"Always." His grey eyes find mine, locking them in a serious gaze. "You must know."

Slowly, I nod. "Always."

"Right." He pushes himself off of the TARDIS, taking a few quick (and probably painful) steps toward me. The alien doesn't even so much as glance toward his charge, but slides his battered arms around me, pulling me close. Warm breath brushes my cheek. Then equally warm lips graze my lips, contouring to fit each curve. They move together, friction brining more heat between us. Suddenly he's pulled me closer, and I'm gasping, and the pattern changes and deepens.

When he's feels as though he has given me a sufficient goodbye, the Doctor steps back, grinning widely. I stumble, back hitting the oak's trunk heavily. He steadies me. "I will see you soon." The promise is grave, leaving me to wonder.

"Yes. It better be."

His eyes widen. "I do hope I didn't just earn myself a slap."

"I'm not sure." I laugh.

Lyra appears beside him. "Are you ready to go?" She demands imperviously, having missed our private moment.

"Almost," He assures her. "I just need another moment with River. Why don't you go to your room for a little while? Your fish need feeding."

Lyra nods, then rushes to me for a quick hug. I return it, squeezing her tiny shoulders. When she disappears behind the blue doors I ask, "Fish?"

The Doctor shrugs. "Far easier than a dog."

"Ah."

Wordlessly, he steps forward again to sweep a kiss across my lips once more.

"Soon, I think," The Time Lord promises. "Wait for me."

"Always."

"I know."

He stride away, opens the blue door, and steps inside. Without looking back. The blue box dematerializes a few seconds later. I wrap my arms around myself, watching with each pulse. Going, going…gone.

Later, two months later, he is at my threshold once more. He's late, of course. But there, as he always is. Rain or shine, apocalypse or invasion, war or peacetime, he comes. Now and then, every once in a very long while, every day in a million days, when the wind stands fair, the Doctor comes to call. He is the constant in my life, as inconsistent as he can be. He is my constant.

**-XXXXXX-**

**This took far long than I predicted. I hope you enjoy this bit. Please review. Thank you. **

**Oh, and sorry about any French mistakes. I'm currently taking Spanish, so this was all the work of Google Translate. **


	5. Soft Start

**Soft Start**

**While touring in the Smithsonian, River Song comes across a scuffle between a mysterious man and what is clearly an alien. The mad man recognizes her on sight, though she doesn't have a clue who he is.**

When she rounded the corner, he shouted, _"DUCK!"_

So she ducked-

As a rotating blade of laser doom made its way through the spot of air her head had previously occupied.

As River's head made contact with the rather solid tiled floor of the Smithsonian's Natural History Museum's Hall of Geology, she wondered who, exactly, would be tossing lethal weapons towards her person. She was young, she had no enemies.

Another yell, and River was forced to roll to her left, her head ricocheting on the nearest corner of wall. Sharp pain bloomed on her scalp. River hissed loudly, grabbing the wound. The man swore in a coarse tone, there was a crash, a flash, and he collapsed beside her. "Close your eyes." He instructed in a whisper. She nodded.

_Caught in the crossfire. _River realized. _Not a personal attack…._

Whether that a good thing or not, she wasn't sure.

There was a very sudden, very sharp _"POP" _and then silence. River felt the man shift beside her, swearing again softly. A thumb brushed her forehead gently, and she shuddered under the touch of a stranger. "You can open your eyes now."

She did, peeking carefully out from beneath her lashes. The grinning face of a man only a few years older than her, where tweed, boots, and a bowtie, greeted her warmly.

"And you can get up, if you wish."

The stranger offered his arm, and she accepted, standing gracelessly. River was embarrassed, though she had little reason to be. It might be the circumstances, though she suspected the attractive male who had just helped her to her feet was far more likely. He was still smiling at her, looking her up and down.

"What was that?"

"Oh, nothing to worry about." He said shortly, but not unkindly. "Trouble, that's all. It's gone now, though. How do you feel?"

River swayed slightly as he released her elbow, which he had been gripping to provide support. "A little off balance, clearly," He chuckled before she could reply. "Well, that's not too surprising. How are your eyes?"

Again, before she could speak he leaned forward to stare into her eyes, his own grey orbs flickering wildly. "A little dazed, tired, and confused, but no damage. Pupils a tad bigger than they ought to be but…you can't help that."

"They hurt." She confessed. "Ache, really."

"Yes," He nodded sympathetically. "Well, that's not unexpected—you've never been exposed to that amount of light before, have you? I doubt it."

"But my eyes were closed—"

"Doesn't matter." The stranger cut her off. "That magnitude would've shot anyone's eyes. It's worse than looking straight into the sun, honestly. Now, your head…."

He leaned closer, brushing his thumb against her forehead again. "How does it feel?"

"Um…" River stuttered. "…It…hurts now. Ouch."

"I'm sorry." He said kindly, pulling his hand back slowly. "It is quite a gash. May I—" His hand dove into a interior coat pocket, pulling out a starched, white handkerchief. It was monogrammed in blue silk thread. _D, _and nothing else. "—if you don't mind?"

The man gesture with the handkerchief, looking pointedly at her wound. River realized she had been staring for quite sometime, unresponsive.

"Oh, um,"

He pressed it gently on the cut, applying light pressure. It was just on her temple, slightly on the scalp. "Better?"

She nodded, gazing up into his eyes. He stared back, amused.

"Now, what are you doing here? Vacationing?"

"School trip."

"Ah." He eyed her curiously. "You'll want to get back to your group then. Stay close to them," The stranger instructed. "Don't want to come across one of these beasties."

"What?"

"Oh, right…you didn't see it…well, probably best that way."

River frowned. "What was that thing, with the light and—"

"A hellios demon. Tend to reside on hotter planets-Venus, Mercury, the like, you understand? This one was trapped in this—" He crossed to the shattered display lining the wall. A single yellow stone lay on a velvet pedestal, cracked. "—little thing, and it wasn't pleased at all. So I took care of it."

She hesitantly stepped forward to examine the stone. "How—how big was it?"

He held up two fingers about an inch's width. River squinted. "Tiny."

"Well, size isn't everything." He winked. "Are you alright, River? Head still hurt?" He raised his hands again to touch the white cloth covering the wound.

"It's not nearly as bad as before." She whispered. The hand migrated from her temple to her cheek, caressing the warm skin slowly.

"Good." The caress continued a few seconds longer, and then he pulled away. "I've got to go now—still have to find the mate to this one in the American History museum, they seem to think it is a meteor. Promise me you'll find your group, and stay with them?"

"I will."

"Good again." He smiled warmly, thoughtfully. "I'll see you again soon, right?"

"I—"

The stranger pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. "Right, best be off." He straightened he lapels of his long, camel-coloured coat. "Be good, sweetie."

He turned and strode away, down the Hall.

"Wait!"

The man halted, turned sharply, and looked at her expectantly, one brow raised.

"How…" She waited for the right words, trying to find an elegant way of putting her question to him. "How do you know my name?"

Instantly, his face darkened. The grave manner pulling at the corners of his mouth, the weariness shielding his eyes, made it very clear the question was not entirely welcome. River took a step back, fearing the worse from that drawn face.

"We've…met." He finally manages.

"When?" She demands. "How do I not remember you? Wha—"

The slow, sly smile stopped her. "Spoilers."

And that was it. He said nothing else, no more explanations. He turned on the heels of his trainers, and walked away. She did not call back again.

River did as she was told, and left the Hall. As she walked down through the grand rooms, she searched for a bathroom. Once there she ran cold water from the tap, snagged a paper towel, and gently cleaned her gash. The handkerchief rested on the granite countertop. She smoothed it carefully, feeling the cool cotton with her finger tips. After a few seconds she folded it and tucked it away into her purse. River carefully arranged her hair to cover the wound. Then she left the bathroom. She found her school group. And she stayed with her friends.

Later, that night in the hotel, she waited for her roommates to drift off to sleep. Once she heard their deep, even, breath, she sat up, crept out of bed, and pulled back the drapes. When a sliver of moonlight lay across her bed, she returned to it, sliding between the sheet and duvet. She pulled the handkerchief out of her purse, unfolded it, and smoothed it once more.

It was now stained brown, crusted with her old blood. _D. _For what? What could his name be? Was it his name? If so, which one? First, surname?

She didn't understand. How could he know her? Why didn't she remember him? He was so exotic, surely she would recall his name, at the very least.

River turned to the moon, staring at her white face. So many questions. And no possible way to solve them, ah! River hugged herself, pressing the cloth to her face. The silk _D _was against her cheek. Mind buzzing with questions, she began to slow her breath and meditate. And eventually she fell asleep, still clutching the fabric to her cheek.

**Reviews, please! Do you like it? **


	6. A Kind of Grace

**A Kind of Grace **

**River Song/11**

As she turns, withdrawing her weapon with ungodly speed, he realizes just how graceful River Song is. She spins like a ballerina, landing carefully on her toes, feet planting firmly on the loose dirt below before she unleashes five rounds into the nearest beast. A slow, satisfactory smile falls onto her face as her first opponent topples.

Then she turns again to fire at the second creature. As this one falls she stoops, ducking to avoid some falling tubes and wires from the ceiling. And, quite suddenly, she is back on her feet, practically dancing her way toward him and the beast that has him by the scruff of the neck. Her long legs weave around the debris. Feline eyes follow him, narrowing at the sight of his attacker. Discomfort makes itself clear in her eyes-she fears for him.

In no time, however, she has crossed to stand directly before him. "I suggest you release him." She says sweetly, eyelashes fluttering.

The creature blinks, confused.

"River," He wheezes. "Don't—"

Three rounds sound, hitting the Silence's gut in a resolute sort of way, and he is cut off.

"Sorry, sweetie." She is absolutely charming. Again, she dances through the rubble to grab her second victim—who is still struggling-and fire a final round into the oval skull. She looks to him, bittersweet smirk sliding across her features. Her limbs relax-all danger is gone, and she stretched out her willow arms to him.

And he came, willingly. She wraps those arms around him, and he wonders at her marvelous kind of grace.

**It's short, I know. But I hope you like it! By the way, does anyone have any prompts they'd like to send my way. **

**And, as always, please review. This hasn't gottne a whole lot of feedback lately, and I would really like to know what you think. Thanks a million. **


	7. How Long You Gonna Stay With Me?

**How Long You Gonna Stay with Me? **

**It was a question he hadn't asked in a long time**.

**NO SPOILERS **

**DISCLAIMER: ****I don't own Doctor Who.**

**-XXX-**

"So…what do you think?"

She is breathless, mouth open and hands gripping his lapels tightly. From the way her eyes are glazes over, he thinks he might already have his answer, however he waits.

"_It's amazing." _

"I know."

"_Shut up." _

"On it."

They stare out into the sunsets— two orbs of crimson, a nice blend of golds, pinks and deep purples. She slowly releases her grip on his jacket, sliding her hands down to meet his. The air she had been holding was released carefully. He grins.

"Impressive?"

She gives him a looks of _"Oh-please-like-I'll-agree-with-that."_

"Yeah, the _sunset _is, actually."

He ought to pout, however, he is too busy watching his partner. Her face is glowing in the light. Every line of age, every trace of weariness is gone in this clear light. It is quite enchanting, really. The Time Lord smiles softly. He knew taking her to the Freedon Shores would be a perfect welcome to her new life. The very hushed reaction she'd display was a clear testament to her awe. He didn't need shouts of joy, poetic words, declarations. He'd never needed that. And neither had she. That was why they worked, they didn't need any—

"How long are you going to stay?" He abruptly asks.

She looks up. Somehow in the last ten minutes she had shifted in his arms to face the view, rather than his jacket. "What?"

The blue eyes arre half-lidded, lazy. He holds his breath for a few moments before repeating his inquiry. The eyes snap out of their haze quickly. Curiosity replaces contentment. "What brought this on?"

He says hastily, "Nothing."

But she doesn't believe it, and again she turns in his arms to bury her face in his pressed shirt. Arms unwillingly wrap around her. She hums with happiness. He is vaguely reminded of his beloved blue box.

"I'll stay for as long you'll have me, and for as long as I possibly can manage."

"Forever?" He whispers.

For a moment she says nothing, merely stays in his embrace, holding him closer. Then—

"No," She pulls away, eyes sad. "Nothing lasts forever."

He backs away too, though keeping his arms loose around her waist. "I know." It's a bitter tone.

"No, no…" And she's back reaching for him. "I want to stay. I want to be here, but you know why I won't stay."

Sighing, he drops his head. She stands on tip-toe to meet their foreheads. "I've got my life. It's not like this, not at all, but…it is mine. And I worked so hard to make it mine, and to just go away with you forever?"

There is a pause for breath and though. Finally, she finished.

"Then I would be just betraying that entire struggle. I _worked _for that degree, for my house." She shakes her head helplessly. "One day I've got to go back. Now, please—" Hands rise to either side of his face, cupping the cheeks. "—please, can we just go back to the sunset? To _now_?"

He nods. For a brief moment, she looks into his eyes, searching for the okay. When she finds the reluctant gaze to be clear, River kisses his brow gently, and turns in his encirclement once more. They watch as the bright pink orbs drift idly toward the horizon, and finally sink into the cliffs as a ship under the waves.

Afterward, on his ship, she aids in steering them off the mountain face. For a moment, while she adjusts the bilibian default speed regulator, he stares through the time rotor. The concentration on her features is endearing. When she glances up, almost instantly focusing on him, he smiles. It's natural, free, and sad.

Today he asked a question he hadn't even conceived since…well, for a long time. The reply was slightly disappointing. Donna had so longed to stay in this life. Rose, Rose had promised everything. He had wanted her forever. He wants River for just as long, if not longer.

But nothing will to last forever. Not him, not them, not anyone or anything.

After they're securely in Vortex, he descends down to the underbelly of the Time Rotator hoping to manage some repairs. Less than thirty minutes in, however, River was tugging him out for dinner, insisting that he eat. He rolled his eyes over domestics, nevertheless, humored her.

**-XXX-**

**I haven't seen a Good Man Goes to War yet, though it's downloading right now. What do you think? Thank you! **


	8. StarCrossed

**Star-Crossed**

**One problem I've always had with the River-Doctor time line is their endings. She states that** "My past is his future. We're travelling in opposite directions. Every time we meet I know him more, he knows me less." **Which leaves me thinking his beginning are her endings, but does it work the other way? Are her beginnings his endings? They're not traveling precisely opposite directions, more of a stop-and-go, here and there. Personally, I believe they still meet after the Library, on his (11's) side at least. So, this is my theory. Sort of in-action. **

**River-11**

**P.S. ****SPOILERS FOR A GOOD MAN GOES TO WAR**

**And, you'll find out why thing are lettered in the author's note. Ciao!**

**-XXX-**

**A.**

He figures she's spent more time sleeping than appreciating art. Here he'd taken her to one of the most premiere art museums on Earth, and all she wants to do is nap on the viewing benches, using him as a, in her words, "bony pillow." It's ridiculous.

But not to River. She just smiles and snuggles closer. "Mmm, I love art."

"I can tell." He can't help but be amused. Kindly, he decides to let

"Oh, they're just star-crossed." He hears the old woman say as she passes with a friend, exchanging a knowing look. She nods toward them, smiling.

For a moment, he's frozen with surprise. River, head resting on his lap, doesn't appear to have heard the comment. Her sharp smile and closed eyes don't change.

The comment is not nearly as surprising as its recognition. This time he's significantly older than his charge, almost disgustingly so to some people. Understandably.

No matter. It is one person out of hundreds in this particular museum who recognized them for what they were, or at least, what they would become.

**-XXX-**

**B.**

The first time he took her on his stolen ship, she asked to see a star.

"What kind?" he had asked. "Bursting, dying, burning? Black, white, blue? There are many kinds of stars."

Any kind, she replied. Just one that was bright.

The Time Lord pushed for more details, but eventually agreed. He took them to 1755, Common Era, to a bright blue beast. She, much like her mother, drifted outside the of the twin blue doors. River was slightly more daring, not giving up a foot for him to hold onto, but rather, a belt looped onto one foot. Her hands were outstretched, as though she longed to touch the distant, glowing orb. When the star flared for a brief moment, she gasped and drew back, hands withdrawling to her chest. Below, still on his loyal ship, he smiled softly. Even cool, calm, collect River couldn't deny the wonders of the universe.

When he drew her back in, cupping her cold cheeks between his burning hands.

"Cool?"

Fantastic, she agreed. When could she do it again?

"Whenever you want," He promised. "But now, there are other things to see."

A soft smile. Alright. Whatever you want, Doctor.

He took her hand and lead her to the console, guiding the smaller limbs to the proper controls to get them back to the Time Vortex.

**-XXX-**

**C.**

He would have never guessed River loved the ocean. She didn't seem like the relaxing type, more like the _"clean-my-gun-in-my-down-time" _sort of girl. But no, she adored the sea and frequently requested visits. And every time, she would return dragging plastic pails filled with shells (and, unavoidably, sand), which she would "give" to the TARDIS, decorating her consol with light pink fans and swirling orange horns. The TARDIS decidedly glowed blue, pleased.

The shower drains would clog with sand, the bathroom floors coated with fine grains. He suspected his ship might be able to do something about it, if she had wanted, but evidently, she hadn't wanted. It was as if she loved the beach as much as River, and wanted to bring it indoors.

"Always the beach, River?" He would groan.

The answer was always yes.

Still, he had fun trying to stun her with exotic, off-world seas of purple, pink, puce, and yellow. Coral reefs, bitter winter shores, secretive bays, and long stretches of abandoned coasts. Finding some of these places wasn't easy. But worth it.

To be honest, he hadn't liked beaches since Bad Wolf Bay. Since Rose. Rose had caused him to hate the sea, like he hated chips, and hated seeing the colour pink to stout blonds. It wasn't truly hate, but merely painful recollections he had never wished to relive. River drew him back to the ocean, took him to chip shops again, and teases women in pink. She was shameless, quite good with a gun, and he loved that. Perhaps he shouldn'tve. But he did.

**-XXX-**

**D.**

As she got older, she became braver, if that were possible. Courageous enough to question him about the his past, her present, and their future.

How do you know my parents?

What was my mother like?

Where did you come from? Why can't you go back?

When you leave again, can I go with you?

He would whisper into the thick cloud of curls surrounding her hair, letting the strands brush against his nose, cheeks, lips, and eyelids, _"Spoilers."_

Sometimes she would laugh at this, pushing him and tease. Other times, River's eyes would grow dark, and when she pushed it wasn't gently, but a forceful shove that hurt. Then she would disappear, running into the bowels of his ship. And the TARDIS would keep her hidden from him, until she knew River was ready to come out.

He would be in the kitchen, the library, or perhaps his own private rooms. She would come, slinking out of the shadows like a panther, a crystal-eyed cat, wary and cautious. And he could only wait, watching the figure creep ever closer until stopping just before him. River would wait too. Then it would come out, bubbling from her lips like fresh clear water from a spring-_why? Why? Why? WHY? _

He never really had a good answer for her. She would just have to come up with one for herself.

**-XXX-**

**E.**

It's when she stops asking that he knows his time is coming to an end.

**-XXX-**

_Demon's Run when a good man goes to war.__  
><em>_Night will fall and drown the sun__  
><em>_When a good man goes to war.__  
><em>_Friendship dies and true love lies,__  
><em>_Night will fall and the dark will rise__  
><em>_When a good man goes to war.__  
><em>_Demon's Run, but count the cost__  
><em>_The battle's won but the child is lost…._

**-XXX-**

**F.**

"_Well then soldier, how goes the day"? _She was smiling, but far from happy. Rage boiled within him.

"_Where the hell have you been? Every time you've asked I have been there! Where the hell were you today"?  
><em>

_"I couldn't have prevented this."  
><em>

_"You could have tried!"  
><em>

Then she says the thing that makes him boil over, hot fury pouring over his resolve._"And so, my love, could you." _She looks to Amy._ "__I know you're not all right. But hold tight, Amy. Because you're going to be."  
><em>

_"You think I wanted this? I didn't do this! This wasn't me!" _She doesn't understand, how doesn't she understand?_  
><em> River stood firm, eyes sharp. She was all business, all seriousness. "_This was exactly you. All this. All of it. You make them so afraid. When you began all those years ago, sailing off to see the Universe, did you ever think you'd become this? The man who can turn an army around at the mention of his name. '_Doctor_.'" _She was almost choking on the word. She circled him, eyes flitting between him and the Ponds._ " The word for healer and wise man throughout the Universe. We get that word from you, you know. If you carry on the way you are, what might that word come to mean? To the people of the Gamma Forests, the word Doctor means '_Mighty Warrior_.' How far you've come. And now they've taken a child. The child of your best friends. And they're going to turn her into a weapon just to bring you down. And all this, my love, in fear of _you_."  
><em>

He blinked. "_Who are you?"  
><em>

But she turned away, looked in another direction, ignoring his wrath._"Oh look! Your cot. I haven't seen that in a very long while!" _The smile returned. The anger bubbled forth again._  
><em>

He wouldn't have it._ " No, tell me who you are." _Now is the time to know, now he needed to know._  
><em>

"_I _am_ telling you. Can't you read?"  
><em>

It's then that he saw it. And, finally, saw her too.

_The only water in the forest is the River._

**-XXX-**

**G.**

He left before she can explain herself to Amy and Rory. However, he could imagine the conversation.

_The only water in the forest is the River._

**-XXX-**

**H.**

When he saw her next, he doesn't fight the urge to pick her up and swing her about, twirling around the console. She's confused and he's laughing and it's a mess of emotion. But he couldn't bring himself to care.

This time she's very young, a teenager. "What is it?" She protested as he made another go around the glass floor.

He stopped, grinning madly. "Spoilers, Melody, spoilers."

Naturally, she was curious. He'd never used that name before. But before she could start questioning he caught her up again, dancing and crooning charmingly Sinatra's _"I Get a Kick Out of You." _

"Have you been drinking?"

The Time Lord didn't skip a beat. "Nothing more than tea. I'm just happy, Melody, can't I be happy?"

"Not when you're acting like a drunken wedding singer, you can't." She grumbled, but went along with his good cheer.

**-XXX-**

**I.**

The time after that she's older, somber. He got her dancing again, this time to a quieter song. Her arms curled around him easily, and they swayed in with the beat.

"Where are you?" He quietly asked after a few minutes.

The crystal eyes were glassy and far away. "Past Demon's Run. Do you know what that is, now?"

Together, they took a few moments for staring at one another before River tugged him close again, and they stopped swaying altogether. Her nose was buried in his chest, breathing in the familiar scent—clean, warm, _normal. _ And she spoke.

"I've been released. Got a house, and a—a job. Professor River Song, once again." She laughs humorlessly. "Next week I leave for my first big assignment. Off-planet, of course."

"Of course," He echoed.

"You…need a haircut." The tips of her fingers played with the hair on the back of his neck.

He froze, knowing what this must mean.

"Let's get away." She whispered. "Just for tonight."

"The Singing Towers." He said dully.

"Yes."

A long sigh released from his chest. "I'll…meet you in an hour. At your house."

River blinked. "Why not go now."

"I've got business." The answer was short, leaving no room for question.

He drops her off on her doorstep.

And then he runs. That hour extended to years. Their timelines cross again and again, reminding him no matter how far he might go, he must return. He must.

When he returned, years later on his terms, merely an hour on her side, he had a new haircut, a pressed suit, and flowers in hand. She was postively beaming.

They go to the towers. As promised, he cried. He'd been there for her when she came into being, now he was about to see her go out of it. And he wouldn't even know, wouldn't even realize who this magnificent creature was to him. He could really hate himself sometimes.

For the last time he left her on the porch, kissing her gently and pressing a modified sonic into her hands. Confused, she attempted to return it.

"You'll need it." He promised. "Trust me."

When he left, the only thought that ran through his head were her words:

"_Funny thing is, this means you've always known how I was going to die. All the time we've been together you knew I was coming here…."_

**-XXX-**

**J.**

Around two o'clock they left the museum, having only seen one floor of early Renaissance pieces. It was starting to get crowded. Though they were both art lovers, but not so attached they were willing to wade through dozens of neon-t-shirt-wearing school groups. Plus, the tourists disturbed River's slumber.

"Where?" He is short today, almost grumpy, and it unsettles her. 18-year-old River frowns, meeting his eyes through the time rotor. The image is distorted, as always.

"The stars?"

"Always." It's tradition. He always says it.

She clutches the railing as they depart, wincing at the brake noise (once again he had failed to disengage them-sometimes she thought he did it on purpose). His eyes never leave hers, and River stares back openly curiously

"_Star-crossed." _

That's what the woman had said. He had heard it too, she saw his expression as the lady wandered away. Stricken. Somber.

"_Star-crossed."_

As in travelling across space and time? Crossing the stars?

_No. Not that kind._

Or…star-crossed, dull with affection star-crossed?

_Yes._

_Or, maybe no…_

Peering at him again, she realizes the answer will not be found today. It might take days, weeks, months, possibly years for her to find the right definition for them, if there is one. They're not quite lovers, but far from just friends. They're simply themselves, the Doctor and River, traveling through space and time in an ancient blue box with an attitude (that would be the box, not them). The Doctor and River, star-crossed.

_Yes?_

_Yes._

**-XXX-**

**Sorry this took so long. I've been on a double vacation. Hope you guys enjoy!**

**I know it's confusing. Basically it's like this-**

**A. They're just basically chilling in a museum. River is 18 years old. After Demon's Run for 11.**

**B. They've met before, but it's the first time she's been on his ship. Think 15-16 years of age for River. After Demon's Run.**

**C. Random point in their relationship. Probably mid-twenties. Serves no purpose to the plot, really, just there. Just displays progression in the relationship. **

**D. Mid-twenties. Happening in his timeline, after Demon's Run**

**E. Thirties now, after Demon's Run**

**F. Flash back for the Doctor of Demon's Run**

**G. Flash back**

**H. About 19-20, almost directly after Demon's Run.**

**I. For River it's a long, long time passed Demon's Run, directly before the events in the Library.**

**J. Back to A. River is 18, they've left the museum. **

**Hope that clears it up a bit.**


End file.
